Sometimes
by woodbyne
Summary: Italy is happy. But sometimes she isn't. Germany is strong. But sometimes she isn't. When they aren't, they have each other.


**This is for my beloved girlfriend; brattyteenagewerewolf. The Germany to my Italy. I miss you more every moment babe, and a happy belated birthday. **

_Italy is happy._

Feliciana threw her arms up in the air, twirling and dancing through the sunshiny garden. There were flowers everywhere, and she picked a yellow one, tucking it into her chaotic copper hair with slim bronze fingers. Looking up at the clear, pale blue sky, her smile only widened.

"Ve~ Monika!" she called, "It's the same colour as your eyes!" another, endlessly musical laugh bubbled up from her lips and spilt over, mingling in perfect harmony with the cheery birdsong that echoed down to them from the trees. Monika, who was sitting on a bench in the shade smiled faintly, half-wanting to join in the revelry, but at the same time not wanting to embarrass herself with such displays of frivolity.

Not being quite so spectacularly unobservant of the atmosphere as people tend to believe – romance countries hardly ever miss an emotional beat - the Italian skipped over to the pale German, holding out her hand, plucking a cornflower bloom from its bed at the same time,

"Come dance with me~!" she encouraged cheerfully, taking the pale hand in her own tanned one and slipping the blue flower into platinum blond hair. Monika looked to the side, but allowed herself to be pulled into this sun-worshipper's dance. Her movements were sluggish at first, a little stiff, but taking cues from Feli, she danced. Italy joined their hands, spinning them around and around so that the garden around them was a rainbow blur of flowers, trees and sky.

Together they tumbled to the grass, out of breath and panting, laughter welling up and running out of them like an eternal spring. Breathlessly, Feliciana leant over and pressed their lips together in a gentle kiss, the corners of both their mouths curled up into smiles.

_But sometimes she isn't. _

Everything about her seemed dull today. Lifeless. Her hair, usually bouncy, was lank, her eyes were dull. There was no spark in her. When she moved, if she moved at all, she was listless, making half-hearted attempts at whatever she was doing. Her usual bright attire was replaced with the faded grey sweatpants that she hated so much, and one of Germany's baggy tee shirts. Even Feliciana's frisky little hair-curl drooped.

Monika sat down tentatively on the sofa beside the Italian, a gentle hand ghosting across her waist, inviting her to lean in for a hug. Feli shied away from the attention, but Monika follows after. Whenever the Italian runs, she will follow. The German woman gently pulls the reluctant Mediterranean nation into her lap and hugs her close. Resistance crumbled and Feli curled up against Monika, tears pouring from her eyes, her slim fingers curling into the fabric of the other woman's shirt and holding her close as she wept.

Pale fingers stroked heaving shoulders and soft comforting sounds, so at odds with the parade-ground roar she was famous for, were whispered in Italy's ear.

Once the tears have slowed to sniffles and the hiccupping sobs are nothing but hiccups, Germany gathers Italy up and guides her to the kitchen pulling out flour and water, and standing behind the slighter nation, Monika guides her hands through the familiar motions of making pasta; kneading, rolling and flattening. This never fails to cheer Feliciana up, and the German rests her head on the Italian's shoulder as her hands start to move of their own accord.

_Germany is strong. _

Her back was straight, her shoulders set, her chin raised. Monika's ice-blue eyes were serious as she negotiated the trade agreement, fingers carefully outlining the points on which she would not be compromised with stiff, practised movements. More gentle motions indicated where negotiation was possible. She brooked no nonsense as she spoke, her militant history evident within her curt voice. She spoke clearly, not bothering with the flimflammeries of speech or with any ornate phrasing. She was to the point and direct without being offensive.

Hera, sat back, a thin frown on her lips as she took in the answer to her plea for help. There were some clauses that she wasn't entirely happy with, but she needed this agreement. She needed to accept this offer. Germany could support her; Germany could help her. Germany was strong enough to help Greece's struggling economy as well as sustaining her own. It somehow wasn't hard to believe that the blonde woman seated stiffly at the table conference room table could be one of the world's strongest nations. Her lands were nothing particularly large; but they were rich, and they served her well.

The two women smiled and shook hands, business done.

Outside, Feliciana waits with a proud smile on her face, looping their arms together and leaning up to give the German a pick on the cheek, "Well done, _cara_," she whispers, leaning her head on Monika's arm.

_But sometimes she isn't_.

Monika's shell is broken wide open as she stares in open-mouthed shock at the angry American across from her. Amelia barely registers that she's done anything wrong as she continues with her tirade. She goes through every stereotypical insult to German character she can think of, from it being a nation of beer-swilling, robotic warmongers, to stealing deck-chairs at holiday inns to Nazism, and it's the last on that makes a tear drip from pale blonde eyelashes. After all this time, how could anyone think that she would still want to be affiliated with that man and his ideals (he wasn't even German to begin with!)? Hasn't she paid for her crimes already? Hasn't she done enough to show how truly, unendingly sorry she is? How she wishes she could take it all back and rewrite history so that all those people whose lives were lost in her name wouldn't have to die?

Apparently not. Amelia pauses for breath, and falters slightly as she notices the blatant hurt on the Germanic nation's face. Hurriedly, Monika composes herself, preparing to go on with the meeting, though she doesn't know if she can. She doesn't know if she wants to be in the same room as these people anymore and she looks away.

Beside her, Italy stands, shaking hands balled into fists at her sides. One hand unfurls itself and jabs an accusing finger at the blonde woman across the table,

"United States of America!" Her voice is shrill in her anger, "That was uncalled for. This is a meeting of allies, not enemies, ve? Your attitude is not welcome here! If you are not prepared to apologise and be civil, then you may leave," honey-coloured eyes are cold and hard as she regards the taller nation. Italy may not always be the bravest person, but when she's really needed, she will be strong for those who need her.

America gulps, the eyes of the meeting upon her as she mutters an embarrassed apology and takes her seat. Sitting down as well, Italy gives Germany's knee a gentle squeeze, and they thread their fingers together.


End file.
